25. CHAPTER 25
The next four days felt like they were being dragged across the calendar. There was still school. And practice. But none of it mattered. Monday lived in the center of my chest, and everything else just circled around it.
Coach flat-out refused to drive three hours on a bus the day of the game, so he badgered the school district until they chartered buses and booked us a hotel for Sunday night.
I crashed fast when we got there. It was the first good sleep I’d had all week. So, when a hand squeezed my shoulder, it took me a second to find the surface of consciousness.
Easton stood over me, shifting from foot to foot like he had to pee. His smile was empty. Something was wrong.
I threw on a hoodie and shoes, careful not to wake anyone else in my room, and we avoided words until we were in the hallway. It was cold and still, with a quiet that made you lower your voice even when you didn’t need to.
“What’s up, Easton?”
“I couldn’t sleep.”
“So…you woke me up the night before the state title game?”
“You’re who I wanted to talk to,” he said.
He nudged open the door to the stairwell. I followed. The air there was colder, damper. The railing was slick beneath my fingers.
“How’d you get into my room?” I asked.
“Gavin gave me his key card after checking in. Said he figured I’d want it.”
I snorted. “He’s such a turd.”
“He was right, though.”
“What’d you want to talk about, then?”
“I don’t know.”
I sighed. “Just to be clear. The night before the most important game we’ve ever played, you woke me up to talk but have no idea what to say.”
“I guess,” Easton said. “Maybe we should just go for a run. Burn off energy.”
“Dude.”
“You can go back to bed.”
“Yeah, right. Like that’s happening now.”
We stretched in the lobby. When we opened the hotel’s front door, I adjusted my shirt as a quick breeze stuck it to my chest.
We took off the second we got outside, running stride for stride like we had so many times before.
We jogged for a mile before we found ourselves at a park.
I tapped Easton on the shoulder and slowed to a walk.
Our breathing was steady—we hadn’t pushed ourselves, but the cold air had restricted our lungs.
“Why do we always end up in parks?” I said. There was little light here, and it was tough to make out any of the equipment. But we found a set of swings, and the metal was rough against my hands as we sat. I pushed my feet backwards and put my body in motion.
“I thought it’d be a good throwback,” Easton said.
“You knew we’d end up here?” I asked, glancing right. He was looking straight ahead, like he had been the night I had first kissed him.
His hands wrapped around the metal chains, his biceps flexing from the force of his grip. He swung fast, unable or unwilling to stay still.
“I saw it when we came in on the bus,” Easton said. “I figured there was some sort of symbolism or some shit. You’re the one who figures out what this stuff means.”
“Why would there be symbolism in a park?” I asked. I planted my feet against the ground and pulled my swing to a stop.
“You remember that weekend at Gavin’s tournament last summer? When I told you about my mom?”
“Yeah, obviously. What’s your point?”
“That’s when our friendship started. It’s when I started to feel…something. Before that, we were teammates, sure. But after that, there was more. We both knew that after we kissed. And today, no matter what, is the last night we will be teammates.”
“That’s weird,” I said. I wasn’t sure what else to say.
“I’m nervous about tomorrow, Tanner.”
“There’s no reason not to treat it like any other game,” I said. My voice faltered mid-sentence—it was a tough lie to sell.
Easton gave me a look. “Come on.”
“Can I tell you what I’m scared about, Easton?
I’m scared we didn’t put in enough work.
I’m scared to let down the team. I’m scared to let down you, and Zach, and Gavin, even.
I’m scared that I’m not ready to play my last game ever.
We’ve always said baseball doesn’t have a shot clock.
They still have to get you out, no matter what.
But tomorrow is mine. At some point, the buzzer’s going to sound.
“But it doesn’t matter. Because Ricky will be there. And Maddux and Silas. But also you. Someone who was never supposed to be there. Someone who shouldn’t be sitting next to me the night before we play this game we love so much. Like, you were a complete stranger a year ago.”
Easton broke the silence that followed. “Well, that was fucking depressing.”
We both laughed out loud, the noise echoing in the distance. I swung my feet twice, preparing my next words as I breathed in the night air.
“What scares me the most is baseball, even though there’s no logical reason to be afraid of it. We have all failed so many times that it is pointless to be scared. In a sense, that’s what makes this game perfect. Because it is impossible to be perfect.
“You are going to fail time after time after time. A pitcher is going to throw you a fat pitch, you’re going to hammer it, and the ball will end up in the right fielder’s glove.
The next at bat, the pitcher will throw you a devastating curveball, you’ll check your swing, and the ball will find grass in the outfield.
“You’re going to throw the ball a foot behind me on a double play or try to make a play by yourself that you shouldn’t.
But in baseball, you are never, ever going to be perfect.
Look at us. We have two losses on the season, and tomorrow, we are going to win a state title.
It’s why baseball is the perfect analogy for life. ”
“You’re wrong.”
“How so?”
“There’s been twenty-three perfect games in major league history. Maddux threw a perfect game last summer, even.”
“Sure,” I said, “but no one has ever been perfect over the course of an entire season. One start, sure. But never over a full year.”
“I’m eleven for eleven in our last three games.”
“Yet your batting average for the season isn’t 1.000. It isn’t even .500. But that’s why this game is so magical. You are one of the best hitters in the state, and you make an out every other at bat. You cannot escape failure.”
“That’s why I ran that night,” Easton said, eyes dropping.
I knew what night he was talking about. He knew that I knew. But I still had to ask.
“What night?” I whispered, my voice catching in the back of my throat.
The chains creaked as we swung in silence, waiting for Easton to speak again.
“On Christmas,” he said. His voice had dropped even lower, and there was even more fear in his voice than when we had gotten here. “I couldn’t be perfect for you. You’d been so good to me, but I couldn’t let myself feel what you did. I wanted to—but it was against everything I was raised with.
“Your family had brought me in when I needed a family the most. I couldn’t let you down.
I couldn’t let any of you guys down, so I ran.
You told me at one point you cried that night.
Well, I cried, too. I cried for a week. I cried because I had failed.
I had lost two families in a year, and there wasn’t any going back.
“But baseball made it happen. Like you said, baseball is a lot like life. Sure, you might make an out or an error, but there is always going to be another chance. We may not have become friends again as quickly as I hoped, but you gave me another chance. Your entire family did, even though I didn’t deserve it. ”
A lump rose in my throat. Easton still wasn’t looking at me. I waited to see if he had anything else to say. When he didn’t continue, I took a deep breath and spoke.
“I could have come to you sooner, too. But I didn’t.
What you need to know, though, is that you’re always going to be a part of the Quinn family.
That won’t change, no matter how much you may fuck up.
We’re a baseball family—shit doesn’t always go our way.
That’s what makes life perfect. It’s what makes you perfect.
The getting back up and stepping into the box again, no matter how many times you make an out. ”
“Tanner,” he said.
“Yes, Easton?”
“I wish things were different.”
“How’s that?”
“I wish I was okay with liking guys. With liking you.”
“It’s alright, Easton,” I sighed. I didn’t let myself hang onto his words because I’d already let go of the version of us that would never be. “I’ve got news for you, though.”
“What’s that?” He finally turned, his voice back to normal.
“Tomorrow, we’re going to win a state title.”